


Two Hearts

by aksarah



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: M/M, ghost!stan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-08
Updated: 2015-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-25 09:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4955464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aksarah/pseuds/aksarah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The battle against Bill had ended. The summer was over. And Stan Pines was dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a Ghost!Stan AU, and contains very tame Stancest. Don’t like it? Don’t read it.

**Chapter One**

_“Well, there was no reason to believe he'd always be there_

_But if you don't put faith in what you believe in_

_It's getting you nowhere…”_

 

            The battle against Bill had ended. The summer was over. And Stan Pines was dead.

 

            They had all fought gallantly, been so clever, had each other’s backs, but when it came down to it, Stan had sacrificed everything for his friends and family. His brother pounded on his chest, trying to give him CPR despite knowing there was nothing he could do.

            _“Sixer, knock it off,”_ he heard a wispy voice that seemed to come from all sides. Stanford looked around wildly. He could just make out the pale shade of his brother’s soul, hovering before him. _“I been dead for decades. Let me go.”_

             “No! I will _not_ let you go!” he shouted. The children and others who were gathered around him kept their eyes trained on the body on the ground, making it clear that the apparition’s appearance was for Stanford’s benefit only. Not wanting to upset them further, Stanford cursed under his breath and whispered “This isn’t over, Stanley. Don’t leave me just yet, I need to talk to you.”

            _“I thought your actions said it_ all _just now.”_ The ghost smiled sadly. _“I’m ready to go…”_

             “ _I’m_ not ready!” Stanford cried. The living people around him reacted, but only two reached out to comfort him. Two sets of small hands clutched at his coat sleeve. His eyes darted from them to his brother’s ghost, pleading.

            _“Ok, ok! Sheesh. Quit it with the puppy-dog eyes. I’ll hang out for a while, but I don’t wanna look at_ that _anymore.”_ He motioned to his corpse, grey and bloody, looking much older now that his life-force had left it. Without admitting it, he was also motioning to the kids, and to Soos, Wendy, and the others who had gathered to help them defeat Bill. He lifted his knees and floated off toward the house. _“I’ll be inside.”_

 

            They buried Stan’s body on the property in the woods in a small clearing. There were promises of a giant memorial, maybe even carved of quartz so as to last for centuries, but for now only a stump served as a headstone. They did not contact the authorities. It was unnecessary and impossible to legally decease a man who had been killed in a car wreck thirty years ago. Stanford, Soos, and Robbie dug the grave, lowered the body down and covered it with earth. Everyone gathered for a quiet, short ceremony which the newly reformed Gideon Gleeful presided over. He gave a touching albeit reticent eulogy, quietly thanking the man who opened his eyes and then gave them everything. Everyone reconvened at the shack and took a meal together, then scattered.

 

            Three days after Stan passed, the Mystery Shack closed. The young Pines twins did their best to cheer him, but Stanford Pines was inconsolable and did not want to ‘hug it out’. He spent much of the day pouring over notes and books, doing calculations, and seemed to be trying to distract himself from having to face his grief. This could not be farther from the truth.

            On the night of the third day, Stanford sat heavily in the arm chair in front of the television. A regulator clock ticked and softly chimed the one o’clock hour and the house creaked slightly as it cooled down, but otherwise he sat in utter silence. The twins had long since gone to bed. In two more days, they would be gone, back home to California. “Stanley?” Stanford croaked and cast his eyes to the ceiling. “Are you still there?”

            In a moment, a bluish smudge of refracted light entered from the hall and resolved itself the best it could into a pale, fuzzy image of Stanley Pines, an old man in a rumpled, blood-stained suit. His fez was missing and his hair and general appearance was disheveled. _“I’m here,”_ he said. His voice seemed to come from inside Stanford’s head, but his mouth moved to form the words.

             “I’m so sorry,” Stanford whispered.

            _“Shut it,”_ Stanley chided him. _“No one’s fault. Shit happens.”_

            His brother shook his head. His eyes were reddened and puffy. His hands trembled as he rubbed them on the arms of the chair. His voice shook. “I’ve tried everything. I don’t know what to do…”

            _“Snap out of it, Stanford. You’re alive._ Live _.”_

             “But without you…?”

            Stanley’s ghost flashed pink and he swooped closer to Stanford. _“Don’t you say it. Don’t you dare say it!”_

“I know exactly how you felt, now. All those years, I had turned myself off, but you didn’t. How did you do it? It hurts so much, Stanley! But at least you had hope that you’d get me back. I will never have that!”

            The ghost circled the easy chair in a panic. _“Hey, you got me! I’m right here, ain’t I?”_

“You said it yourself. You got your resolution. You got me to admit I was wrong and that I love you…” Stanford’s voice cracked. “You’re fading, Stan. You’ll be gone soon and you know it.”

            Stanley stopped moving and hung his head. _“ _Yeah…It’s not like I got a choice.”__

            Stanford clenched his teeth and pushed himself out of the chair. He paced up and down the living room. “I know that! I’ve looked into every angle, but I can’t reanimate your corpse in any kind of healthy way, I can’t create a new living host body for you—it’s beyond my area of expertise, really—, I could put your soul in the body of an automaton but I can’t do anything to you except bind you to it and I’m not going to have your possessing a doll for all eternity on my conscious!”

            Stan’s ghost folded his arms. _“What if I possess a living person? Would that still be for ‘eternity’ or just until the body dies?”_

“Just until the body dies, and, sure, I could do it, but what living person is going to give up their life just so that you can…” Stanford stopped pacing and a eureka moment lit up his face. “That’s it. That’s it!” he shouted and ran to the basement.

 _“What’s it? Stanford! What’s it?!”_ Stan swooped after him and the house fell silent once more.

 

            Just before dawn, Dipper awoke with a start and out of habit checked the room for signs of a problem. His sister slept peacefully, sprawled in her bed, a stuffed animal pulled close to her with one arm. Her pet pig, Waddles had been left at their friend Candy’s house the day before as they couldn’t take him with them to California. Only two days remained. Dipper never thought he’d be so ready to go home, but the last three days had been exhausting and unbearably sad. Mabel did her best, but her heart was broken by Stan’s death and would need time and distance to heal. Dipper wanted to help his great uncle Stanford, but the man had been unhinged in his grief. He spent much of his time in the labs under the shack, but when he was above ground, he muttered to himself occasionally as if having a conversation with his late brother. Dipper knew it wasn’t right to chastise him for it, that if he had lost Mabel he’d be a wreck, too, but it was scary and his frustration at not being able to do anything to help had worn Dipper out.

            Dipper checked the orange glow of the 1970’s electric flip-clock on the nightstand. Its gears whirred as it turned 6:09, the 8 covered by the 9 as it flipped into place with a soft click. He wouldn’t miss the sleepless nights listening to that stupid thing, he thought, as he go up and went to the bathroom. It was like having a grandfather clock that chimed every minute. It never seemed to keep Mabel awake, though. Maybe it was too far away for her to hear. Who was he kidding? She wasn’t an anxious over-thinker like him. Yet another personality trait he envied his sister for. Only a few unsteady steps into the hallway, Dipper stopped short and held his breath. He heard the refrigerator door close and a chrome chair scrape against the linoleum in the kitchen. Suddenly, he no longer needed to pee; he needed a glass of water.

            The first thing that surprised him wasn’t the sight of his great-uncle under the florescent light with enormous bags under his eyes, it was the fact that he was able to sneak up on him.

             “Hey, great-uncle Ford,” he said softly, causing the old man to jump a little.

             “Dipper? What are you doing up this late?”

             “It’s six in the morning, actually.”

             “Oh.” He glanced up at the clock. “So it is.”

             “Is everything alright?” Dipper asked, pulling out the other chair and taking a seat across from him.

             “No, son. It is not.”

            Dipper stared at Stanford’s hands. They were stained with some sort of writing in purple ink which he had apparently done his best to wash off as his knuckles were red and raw-looking. “Is there anything I can do? Anything at all?”  
            Stanford’s eyes wandered up to meet the young teen’s and he smiled softly. “No, son. No. It’s alright. There’s nothing you or anyone else can do.”

             “You’ve been trying though, huh?”

Stanford Pines looked genuinely shocked for a moment, then remembered that he was talking to the same young person who had studied his journals cover to cover, the same one who over the course of the summer had raised the dead and banished ghosts. His shoulders slumped. “Yes. But it’s too late. He’s gone.” He didn’t have the heart to tell him that his ‘Grunkle Stan’ had held on for a few days until this last-ditch attempt when he’d finally disappeared from this plane forever. His brother’s last words played in his mind on repeat: _‘Stop. Sixer... Don't do this.’_ Tears came to his eyes just as the sun finally broke through the trees and caught his eye. A cold shiver ran down his spine and shook him to his core. He gasped and clutched the edges of the table.

             “Great uncle Ford? You ok?” Dipper asked, jumped out of his seat, ran around the table and put his hand on his shoulder. The man was shaking and his eyes began to glow a soft purple. He squeezed them shut and shuddered, panting slightly. “Great uncle Ford?!”

            He opened his eyes, released the table and stared at his hands. “What the…?”

             “Are you ok?” Dipper pleaded.

             “Kid?” he said, raising a brow. He looked from Dipper to his purple-stained hands. He raised them up and felt his face, pulled his glasses off and examined them then slowly put them back on. “Hot Belgian waffles... I don’t believe it. What did that moron do?!”

            Dipper gaped at him. He noticed that the cleft in his chin, which had been there only moments before, was gone. “Oh my gosh. _Grunkle Stan?!”_

 

 

_Two Hearts,_

_...believing in just one mind._

_Beating together till the end of time_

_“Two Hearts” - 1990, L.H. DOZIER, P.D. C. COLLINS_

 

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow I wrote more! And I know where it's going, now! Yay!

**Earlier:**

_“What’s it?! Stanford!!”_ Stan’s ghost wailed and chased his brother down through the elevator shaft, emerging through the doors as they closed behind him.

            “Don’t worry,” Stanford barked. “I’ve got it under control.” The crazed look in his eye told Stanley otherwise. He pushed a stack of books from the table he’d been working at for the last three days to the floor and pulled one dusty tome toward him then flipped it open to a place held with a black ribbon. “Poke weed, wormwood, gnome tears,” he read off a list of ingredients and gathered them from a nearby chest of tiny drawers. Stanley continued to pester him but unable to touch him or do anything to stop him, the ghost quieted.

            “Don’t have much time,” Stanford breathed. “Gotta be careful…” He ground dozens of ingredients in a mortar and pestle, mixed the purple substance with alcohol and rummaged for an appropriately sized paintbrush. Next, he found five candles and placed them in a ring on the floor and connected them with red chalk into a pentagram.

 _“What the fuck are you doing?”_ Stan’s ghost pleaded.

            “Saving you. Shut up.”

_“I don’t need saving!”_

            “Do not give up on me, Stanley!” Stanford shouted. “Your death is my fault!”

_“An’ I told you, I been dead for years and years! I faked my death and became you. I only existed to get you back. I was a placeholder, nothing more.”_

            Stanford looked up from his work. His brows arched in agony. “How can you say that?!”

_“Because it’s true. I’ve never been worth a good god damn. Not to pops, not to you… all I’ve ever done is screw shit up. I lost you twice, so getting you back was the only reason I stuck around. Bein’ able to save you guys from that triangle thing was just a little bonus, really.”_

            “If you care so little for me, what about Dipper and Mabel, huh?”

_“I didn’t say I…”_

            “Answer me! Do you think you were worthless to _them?_ I have _never_ heard a more heart-wrenching sound than Mabel Pines screaming over your corpse!”

            Stan’s aspect shimmered as if Stanford’s words had a tangible effect on him. _"Jesus, Sixer. I'm sorry. I just... I don't want you to... what I mean is..."_ Stan struggled. Just telling his brother to let him go wasn't working. He wanted to tell him that he didn't want to be the cause of his pain, but the right words would not come. And now, he felt so tired. _"Just, don't..."_

            Stanford looked up from his work and gasped. "Hang in there, Stanley! Just a little longer, please!" In his haste he got the inky stuff on his hands and cursed under his breath.

His brother's cries seemed to rouse him a little and he wavered, but found it hard to form a sentence. _"Stop. Sixer... Don't do this."_

            "You're not the boss of me," Stanford quoted him, ripped off his shirt and hastily painted symbols on his chest. He sat in the middle of the pentagram and chanted in a strange tongue. Stan's ghost faded as he recited the spell, and when it was done the symbols on his chest burned with foxfire then melted into his skin. Stan’s ghost disappeared.

 

.x.

            Dipper stared at the man seated at the kitchen table in disbelief. "Grunkle Stan?" He asked again. "How…?"

            He shivered and shook his head. "Why? Why did he do this?"

"He's not in there with you?" Dipper gawked at him and wished that he would just look him in the eye. In a moment he got his wish and instantly regretted it. Stan Pines looked up through eyes glistening with tears that were genetically identical, but entirely not his.

            "No. He's gone."

            "How can that be...?!"

"I don’t know!” Stan barked. He was tired, not like he had been as his spirit faded. His body--his brother’s body--ached for rest and his mind didn’t work right. Stan saw Dipper step away from him and slumped his shoulders into a body-posture.much more like that of Stan Pines. “I’m sorry, Dipper. I feel like I been put through the ringer.”

            The boy nodded. “Makes sense. Ford hasn’t slept in days. Maybe you should go have a nap… at six in the morning.”

            “Good idea. I’m beat. He’s beat. Was beat? Whatever,” Stan mumbled and hefted himself out of the chair. His brother’s body was lighter, taught with tension and innumerable aches--some old, some new. The sensation shocked him and he stood in place for a moment, trying to adjust to the difference. “Whoa,” he said. Dipper must have thought he was unsteady, as he took Stan by the elbow and helped steady him. “It’s ok, kiddo. I got it. I’ll go slow. Gonna catch a few Zs.” Stan made to shuffle away, but found that his legs were not the shuffling kind. The nerves and muscles wanted to march, but as he was running on empty, Stan proceeded slowly, with measured steps. He felt every muscle contract and expand for the first time and marveled at the strangeness of it. “Man, I hope I get used to this,” he muttered and stopped suddenly as a thought entered his mind that made his blood run cold. “Dipper, uh… Do me a favor and don’t tell your sister just yet. I wanna break it to her gentle, ok? That shouldn’t hafta be your job.”

            With a small degree of relief on his face, Dipper nodded.

            “An’ I’m sorry.”

            Dipper’s mouth screwed up into a tight pout, but he didn’t respond, simply shook his head, dismissing Stan for now. The old man walked down the hall to his bedroom, flopped down on the bed without turning the covers down and pressed his face into his pillow.

            “I’m sorry for killing Ford!” he wailed into his pillow and in just a few minutes cried himself to sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan is dead but now Stanford is gone. Stan dreams about his brother and they have a heart-to-heart - so to speak.

            The dream was a familiar one. A grey beach extended down along a grey ocean. A shipwreck stuck partially out of the slow, constant waves. Just ahead, the swing set from his childhood protruded from the sand, but rather than a decrepit, unusable ruin, the iron was intact and a small figure sat hunched over on the right hand swing, little arms wrapped around the ropes so that they bowed in toward him.

            Stan approached slowly, oxford dress shoes dragging through the sand and grasses. He glanced down at the boy. “This seat taken?” he asked and motioned to the empty swing on the left. His brother glanced up, looked on him sadly for a moment then back down at his tiny feet and shook his head. He didn’t swing, but his feet dangled, not quite touching the ground.

            “Ya look like ya lost your best friend,” Stan whispered and seated himself.

            The boy nodded and sniffled but didn’t look back up.

            “Me too.”

            They sat in silence for a long time. Stan watched the colorless waves crash, over and over, the sound muffled as if heard through the body of a sea shell. The shipwreck bobbed slightly in the surf, its tattered sails flapping like ghosts. After a while it was too much to look at so he cast his eyes downward to his feet, just as the boy at his side did. But now the boy’s feet touched the ground. His deck shoes dug into the sand.

            “There’s so much I never got to say to you,” he said, voice deeper now. His unusual hands held the swing’s ropes and he grimaced.

            Stan shrugged. “Oh well.”

            “Like ‘thank you’,” the teen whispered.

            “I used to wanna hear that. I don’t anymore. You were right. Bringin’ you back nearly destroyed the world and got me killed.”

            “That’s right, but you brought me back because you _wanted_ me back,” Stanford said, turning to face him again. He was a grown man, now--broad shouldered and tall, but lacking the confidence that he exuded as an older man. “I never acknowledged that, and for that I’m sorry.”

            Stan’s hands ached from gripping the ropes so tightly. This dream wasn’t usually a nightmare. Usually, he sat alone in silence. This conversation was almost too much to bear. “You’re _sorry?_ For not saying _thank you?”_ his voice cracked a little as he fought to keep his emotions in check.

            “No! I mean, yes! I mean…” Stanford sighed. “I’m sorry for how things turned out. How I could never get past how much you hurt me.”

            Stan scoffed and looked off at the grey ocean. “Over a fucking school?” he muttered.

            “It wasn’t about the school!” Stanford cried. “It was _never_ about the school.”

            Stan’s head snapped around and he stared at the man next to him as if his head were on fire “Oh yeah? Then what was it? What got me thrown outta the house if not that? What got your panties in such a bunch that you wouldn’t speak to me for a _decade?”_

            “You blew me off, Stan. In eighteen years you always had my back. I always depended on you for support, for…” Stanford shook his head. “That school was, at the time, the most important thing to happen to me. It was the thing that would lead to the future I’d always dreamed of, and you screwed it up for me and rather than apologize or try to fix it--you suggested we could go treasure hunting! It was the most insensitive, stupid fucking thing I’d ever heard and it was coming out of _your_ mouth!” He shouted. Stan stared back at him, mouth and eyes wide in shock. Stanford rarely cursed and the f-word hit him almost harder than all the others he was spouting. “So when dad kicked you out, I didn’t step in. My heart was broken, Stanley. _By you._ And it _never_ healed.” He looked away and his voice dropped to a whisper. “I spent a year or two pushing the hurt down until I forgot it even existed. And when it was down far enough, I sealed it away. Unfortunately, it took the love I had for you with it.”

            “Stanford…”

            “So even though it’s too late, even though I screwed this up so royally time and time again, I’m sorry. I miss you, I love you, and I’m sorry.”

            When Stanford looked up he was taken aback to see the old man next to him crying. He was trying to keep it together, but just barely containing his blubbering. “Jesus Christ, Stanford,” he sobbed. “Why the fuck couldn’t we have said this shit earlier? Now I’m dead, you’re gone, and I don’t know what I’m gonna do without you!”

            Stanford raised a brow. “I’m not gone, _you_ are.”

            Stan wiped his face on his sleeve and shook his head. “Nuh-uh. You botched that spell. You’re gone and I’m back.”

            “No, I botched the spell and _you’re gone_ …” Stanford Pines leapt from the swing and grasped his brother by the shoulders. “Stan!”

            “What?!”

            “Are you a dream?”

            “What? No!”

            “You’re not?!” Stanford released him and stood in front of him, patting his chest to prove his point. “Well, I’m not either!”

            Stan squinted at him. “Sure you are. You’re in _my_ dream.”

            “No, _you_ are in _mine_.” Stanford frowned.

            Stan cocked his head to one side. “I think I recognize this scene from, like, a million dreams I’ve had, Stanford.”

            “And you think I wouldn’t dream the exact same thing?”

            He had him there. “Oh. Good point. So wait, if you’re not a dream, then…?”

            Stanford’s face beamed with joy. “It worked!! Ha ha!” He clapped his hands together then held them out, encouraging his brother to take them. Stan gave him a puzzled look but slowly he took them and Stanford pulled him up out of the swing. The sky brightened into a brilliant blue and the ocean darkened to its earthly navy. A seagull cried overhead and the waves crashed crisp and clear. “I did it.” He smiled on Stan and squeezed his hands.

            “This may come as a shock, Poindexter, but, I don’t get it.”

            Stanford laughed. The sound delighted Stan and he relaxed a little. His brother released his hands and put an arm through the crook of his elbow. They meandered down the beach together. “You see, when you asked if I could bind you to a living thing, I had an epiphany. I couldn’t find something appropriate with time running out the way it was, but I did have one ready subject at hand. _Myself._ ”

            “Holy Moses...”

            “So, looks like we inhabit the same sub-conscious now. This is so fascinating!”

            “Fascinating…” Stan repeated. “So you’re not gone?”

            “Nope.”

            Stan stopped walking and startled Stanford by pulling him into a tight hug. He buried his face in his neck and squeezed and squeezed and Stanford, in the freedom of his sub-conscious, returned the gesture with gusto. “Missed you, brother,” he mumbled.

            “Missed you, too,” Stan said and released him, heartily patting him on the back several times. “Somethin’s buggin’ me, though. What the hell happened this morning?”

            “This morning? Oh.” Stanford frowned as he tried to recall the events of the last twenty four hours. “The last thing I remember was speaking to Dipper.”

            Stan made a face. “Yeah…”

 

.x.

            “He’s been sleeping all day,” Mabel said, pressing her ear to the door. Her great uncle snored like a freight train on the other side. The action pushed the fez she’d worn since her Grunkle Stan died to one side and she quickly raised a hand to keep it from falling. It was nearly noon.

            “Well, he’s been awake for a long time. He needs it,” Dipper shrugged and led her away from the bedroom. “Come on, let’s go scrounge for food.”

            Mabel poured herself into the PVC chair at the little formica-top table in the kitchen and put her head in her hands. The tassel of Stan’s fez fell forward and she ineffectively tried to blow it out of the way a few times before just letting it cover her face. Dipper found a couple packages of ramen and proceeded to make them lunch. Breakfast had been some pop-tarts and water. In two days they would make their way back to California. The idea of going back to school in a week or so made Dipper want to curl into the fetal position and transform into a large grub or beetle rather than have to go back to such mundane banality as gym class. He was lost in this thought as the ramen came to a boil and started to spill over the small pan.

            “You ok, Bro-bro?” Mabel asked, sleepily.

            “Yeah, just, spacing out. Oh man, I hate that smell.” He waved his hand in front of his nose as he slopped the broth into two bowls and used a fork to serve out the noodles.

            “Only you could burn Ramen.” Mabel teased him quietly and took the bowl he brought to her. She smiled a little, but it was only temporary.

            They ate their meager lunch in silence. The regulator clock in the living room ticked, the fridge hummed, but otherwise, the shack was quiet.

            “I can’t wait to go home,” Mabel whispered, playing with her food.

            Dipper didn’t ask why. He didn’t reply that he would rather go to Siberia than go home. He didn’t tell her the one thing that would maybe make her happy, or, happier, anyway, and it ate him up inside. He put his fork down. “Mabel, there’s something I gotta tell you. And, I shouldn’t because someone asked me not to, but I don’t want to keep secrets from you ever again, so here goes.”

            Mabel straightened up in her chair and gave him her full attention. She bit the inside of her lip. “Ok…”

            “Grunkle Stan is…” Dipper made a face. “I’m not sure what. But he’s still around.”

            “That’s not funny, Dipper,” Mabel said quietly and stared at him, hard.

            “Ah, I’m messing this up! What I mean is, he’s not a ghost, but Great Uncle Ford did something to his spirit and now he’s back. Or he was never fully gone, but he’s more here now that he was.”

            Mabel banged her fists on the table, making everything on it jump an inch or so. “Stop it! Stop it, Dipper! That’s impossible! I watched him die!” She got to her feet and made to run from the room, but her brother grabbed her hand.

            “No it’s not! Mabel, how much weird stuff have we seen this summer, huh? Come on! I’m just not sure what’s going on so I don’t know how to explain it but this morning Ford just sort of swapped places with Stan, I saw it with my own eyes!”

            “Why didn’t you just tell me _then?!”_

            “Because Stan told me not to tell you! He said _he_ wanted to break it to you. He was really upset, Mabel. I think he thinks that he _removed_ Ford--that Ford is _gone_ now.”

            That quieted her. Mabel relaxed a little and pouted. “Is he?”

            “I don’t think so, but Stan did.”

            Fresh tears came to her eyes and without another word, Mabel ran from the room.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stan takes a shower and has a panic attack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a line in here involving a leg that made me laugh very hard the first five or six times I read it after writing it. If it makes you laugh, too, please do let me know~  
> Warning - much more bad language (thanks, Stan) and a panic/anxiety attack are ahead, as well as some other stuff.

            “Interesting…” Stanford paced across the hard sand with his arms folded behind him. The sun shone down on them, warm and soft, and a pleasant breeze blew from the south. “So Dipper witnessed the transformation. Perhaps when you're conscious again he’ll be able to give you some more information.”

            “You think I’m goin’ back?” Stan asked and watched him walk back and forth. He unfastened his tie and collar.

            “Certainly. You’re just asleep right now. Rather, we are. I am. No, we are. Yes. Hm, the pronouns are going to be difficult to get straight, forgive me.”

            Stan scoffed. “Of all the things… You’re worried about _pronouns?”_

            “Yes. What are you worried about?”

 _“The kids_. Mabel, especially. Soos and Wendy. The shack. _You._ Everything, I guess, except _pronouns_.”

            Stanford frowned and shrugged. “Fair enough. Well, talk to Dipper when you wake. He’s a bright boy. He’ll be of great help.”

            Stan shook his head, a bit exasperated by his brother’s matter-of-fact attitude. “Say, wasn’t there a picnic table around here or somethin’? I’m beat. Don’t know why or how since this isn’t reality, but, yet, my sciatica is acting up.” He dug his knuckles into the back of his right thigh.

            The left side of Stanford’s mouth tugged upwards and he raised a finger. A plush, yellow couch morphed out of the sand. “Stan, you don’t have to be old here. See?” He shifted form from his twenties to a child and back again. Dressed in a turtle-neck sweater and corduroys and a pair of deck shoes, Stanford’s preppy academic aesthetic was on point.

            Stan raised a brow and looked him up and down. “Oh yeah? Like this?” He transformed his appearance, a bit awkwardly at first, into a chubby teenager, eliciting a snarky giggle from his twin who had chosen to exhibit the prime of his life. “Hey, who says I need to be exactly the same—it’s a dream, right?” He waggled his eyebrows and shifted to about twenty-five. It was a good year, somewhere between the leanness of prison and the flab of alcoholism, but Stan made a few improvements—tighter muscles, less paunch, better hair. He struck a proud pose. “Likey-so?”

Stanford blinked a few times at the sight and it took him a moment to respond. “Sure. That… looks fine.”

            “Hey, if you’re gonna be stuck with me for a couple decades, I might as well give ya something nice to look at.” Stan wore a white tee-shirt, stretched tight across his broad chest with tight blue jeans—slightly worn, and low, black Converse sneakers.

            “Sure…Uh...So...” Stanford took a step back and struggled to change the topic of conversation but a disturbance in the dream beat him to it. Before his eyes, Stan flickered as if he were no more than a hologram.

            “Hey, what’s goin’ on!” he shouted and reached out for Stanford, but his hands passed right through him.

            “I-I don’t know! Don’t go! Stanley!”

            His twin opened his mouth, but vanished before he could cry out his name.

 

.x.

            Mabel threw open Stan’s bedroom door and catapulted herself onto the bed. “Grunkle Stan! Grunkle Stan, wake up! Please, wake up!” she shouted the same words she had screamed until her voice gave out just three days before.

            “Wha, who, wha…?!” The man in Stanford’s body gasped in alarm. “Mabel?!” He looked up at her weeping face and his chest ached. He froze in place, confused and torn between the pain of being pulled away from his brother yet again and the agony of his niece's tears. He wrapped his arms around her and held her to his chest and shushed her. When he saw Dipper appear in the doorway his eyes shot daggers at him. “I thought I told you…”

            The boy stood in the doorway and folded his arms. “I won’t keep anything from my sister anymore. I’m sorry I went against you, but she had to know, _now_.”

            He really couldn’t argue with him seeing how devastated the girl was. He stroked her hair and did his best to calm her. “Sweetie, I'm sorry. It's ok.” He made to sit up and reached for his glasses then wrinkled his nose as a wave of body odor hit him. “Wow I am _really_ sorry. I stink! Well, _he_ stinks. We stink. Ugh. _Pronouns...”_ he mumbled.

            Mabel screwed her face up into a fish-lipped pout and put her hands on his cheeks, pressing the flesh together and mushing his lips up into almost an identical expression. “Mabel, honey, whaddaya doin'?” he asked.

            Her brows were arched up in the middle and she sniffled pathetically. “Grunkle Stan, it’s really you?”

            “Yeah, Punkin. Different package, same Grunkle. For now, anyway.”

            She sighed in relief, let go of his face and latched onto his neck again, not seeming to mind his stench.

            Dipper unfolded his arms. “So you think it’s a Jekyll and Hyde scenario, too?”

            Stan frowned and gently pushed Mabel back to sit an arm’s length from him. “Jeez, kid, I can only imagine which one of us you think is which.”

            “I didn't mean that you're the evil one—Hyde made the potion and they shared a body.”

            “Ah,” Stan pursed his lips. “Yeah, that fits. I switched with Stanford and he’s stuck in here,” he said and tapped a finger against his temple.

            Dipper’s posture relaxed and he slumped against the doorframe in relief.

            “Grunkle Ford’s in your head?” Mabel asked, perplexed.

            “Yep. Weird, huh?” Stan smiled thinly and noticed for the first time that Mabel was wearing his hat. His heart twisted again.”Fez looks good on ya,” he said with a wink. She made to take it off and he waved his hand. “Keep it. I been through a few of em over the years. I'll get a new one.” Stan slid out of bed, put Stanford's glasses on and gently shooed the children from his room. He patted the top of the fez on Mabel’s head a few times until it dropped down over her eyes. She giggled and his heart lightened, just a little. “Dipper, we’ll chat after I get cleaned up. You eat?”

            “Ramen,” he replied.

            “Ugh. We'll do better for dinner. Promise.”

            Dipper nodded, gave him a small smile and closed the door behind his sister, who held his hand, tightly.

 

            Wearily, Stan pulled a open drawer and stared at his clothes for a long while, then pushed it closed again with a huff. How could he wear the clothes of a dead man? He wondered what they buried him in. Must have been the same suit. He couldn’t imagine that they’d changed him. That’s fine. That suit was shot, anyway, he thought. His glasses were long gone, but the prescription was probably different, anyway. So what to wear?

            In his closet, behind the Stan Vac and other mementos of a life long-lost, Stan found a cardboard box and unfolded the flaps. From it he pulled turtlenecks, corduroys, khakis, button-downs, polo shirts, blazers, sweaters, socks, y-fronts, and a few pairs of brown shoes. Everything but the underwear was colored in earth-tones. He cast aside some items that had succumbed to time and moths. “Yeesh,” he muttered and made a face. “Some fashion sense you had, Stanford. Looks like a prep school exploded in here.” He hadn’t thought much of the clothes when he packed them away almost thirty years before. At that time he had tried hard not to think about them at all as he made way for his own things, knowing it would be a very long time before Stanford would need them again. “Any of this still fit?” he wondered, holding up what looked like an impossibly small pair of pants. He patted his belly and chuckled darkly. “Touché. Forgot you’re in better shape than I was.” He lumped several items over his arm (but left the ancient y-fronts in the box—Stan was a boxer guy) and headed for the shower.

            He started the water and stared at his brother’s face in the mirror. The cleft in his chin was gone—he’d have to ask Stanford about that if when he fell asleep again he could talk to him as he had done earlier. “Poor Ford,” he mused, remembering the look of panic on his face as Stan woke up. “Must be worried sick. That’s a nice change.” He grinned a little and felt the stubble on his chin then ran a hand through his hair—so much darker than his had been. Though they were identical twins, the Stans had always been slightly physically different. Stan was a bit fatter (but his eating habits were also poorer) and Stanford had a cleft chin and additional fingers. As the thought of this deformity entered his mind, Stan stopped and looked at his hands closely for the first time since he’d entered his brother’s body. “Jesus,” he whispered. He’d been intimately familiar with them when he was younger, but being on this side of them was deeply unsettling.  
            The additional finger seemed to be the one between where the middle and ring finger would be, but it was so seamlessly part of the hand as a whole that it was hard to tell which was the different digit. The hands were also wider than usual. Earlier, he had noticed as he clutched his niece to comfort her, that her head seemed smaller by comparison.

            Stan shuddered and took a deep breath. In order to shower he’d have to be naked, and if he thought looking at Stanford’s face and hands from his perspective was difficult, he knew he was nowhere ready to see the whole package. But he had to get clean. Stanford’s body stunk to high heaven due to many days without bathing.

            Stan reached behind him and grasped the collar of his sweater. “Welp, here goes nothin’,” he said, and pulled the sweater off over his head, dropping it and the shirt under it to his feet.

 

 

 

            He choked and grasped the edge of the sink for support as his legs almost gave out at the sight in the mirror. Stanford’s torso was covered with more scars than he could count. Some seemed medical in nature—evidence of stitches and incisions near the center of his hairy chest; some looked decidedly less voluntary. There were burn marks, lacerations, skin-grafts, and more, over eighty percent of his upper body. Trembling, Stan turned his shoulder and glanced at the reflection of his back. “Oh God…!” He gasped and fumbled for the hand mirror he used to trim his nose hairs. Holding it up and looking through it at the vanity mirror he could see the lash-marks that crisscrossed his brother’s back. Stan’s imagination flashed scenes from Roots (the only time he’d ever seen a man get whipped was on television) and he gripped the little mirror so tightly it cracked. He spun around and dry heaved into the sink. “Oh Christ. Oh Christ. Oh fuck. Oh. Oh fuck,” he repeated, trying to catch his breath as an anxiety attack overtook him.

            A few minutes later he lifted his head, relieved to find that the mirror had fogged over. The shower had been running for at least ten minutes by now, and he still had to get clean. The idea of the hot water washing over him gave him a small feeling of comfort, so Stan choked back his fear and unfastened his pants.

            The damage to his lower half was significantly less involved than the upper, and he was pleased to find that Stanford’s privates seemed to be in order, but one major scar stood out. Around the circumference of his left thigh were a series of metal staples and the flesh from there down was not exactly the same color as the flesh above it.

            “Oh fuck, who’s fucking leg is this, Stanford?” Stan shook his head and stepped determinedly into the shower. “Nope. I don’t wanna know. I do not want to fucking know. What leg? What fucking leg?!” he asked hysterically. The water was a little too hot, but he didn’t mind. Stan put his face under the showerhead and let it soak him. The hysteria passed and his heart grew heavy again. “Stanford…” he whispered. “What the hell have I done to you?”

            When he’d been sufficiently soothed and calmed by the water’s warmth, Stan lathered up and washed the body gently—carefully, running his fingers slowly over each scar, each burn, each stitch. He was surprised to find that most of them appeared to be very old—only a few were still bright pink, pinker thanks to the hot water. The staples on his leg were less than comfortable when heated and the mere thought of them made his stomach turn. The leg and foot were the same size as the one on the right and just about the same shape, but the skin was softer, younger. Stan shuddered and hurriedly finished up. “You been through so much ‘cause ‘a me,” he whispered and turned off the tap. “I’m gonna take good care ‘a ya. I _promise_.”

 

.x.

            When Stan emerged from his shower, he found Mabel and Dipper waiting for him in the living room. Dipper stood next to the fish tank holding his elbows. Mabel sat in Stan’s armchair and both of them froze and stared when he entered. He put a hand behind his head. “Ta-da,” he laughed sheepishly. Though his voice, hair, and glasses were Stanford’s, and the grey corduroys and orange turtleneck came out of Stanford’s wardrobe, his posture and grin were entirely Stanley. Mabel charged him and hugged him tightly. “You look great, Grunkle Stan!” she beamed.

            “Thanks, Sweetie.” He looked up and met Dipper’s eyes but the boy quickly looked away. Stan sighed and took a seat on the arm of the dilapidated chair in front of the television. “Dipper, he’s ok.”

            His head snapped back. “What?” he asked, surprised.

            “Ford’s fine. He’s happy that the spell he cast worked on me and he’s excited to talk to you when he’s on the outside again. I’m not sure when that’ll be but…”

            “Sunset,” Dipper blurted out. “You transformed with the sunrise. My guess is you’ll go back at sunset. Or more precisely, seven-fifty-two.”

 _“Dipper!”_ Mabel folded her arms and glared at her twin.

            Stan was rendered speechless for a moment. “Oh. Ok. Huh.” His mind raced with dark thoughts, but instead of spouting something self-deprecating or venomous he shook his head. Mabel wrapped her arms protectively around his bicep. “This isn’t easy for me, Dipper. I died. I should be gone. This was Ford’s brilliant idea.” He bowed his head.

            “No no! I didn’t mean…!”

            “He couldn’t let go even though I _begged_ him to. You two are so much alike it’s _scary.”_ He looked up at him. “I’m sure you’d do the exact same thing for Mabel.”

            Dipper blinked back tears and nodded his head emphatically.

            “Now, how ‘bout we order up some ‘za? I’m starvin’!”

 

            The Pines family talked over the dinner. It was hard for Stan to keep the conversation light because there were so many heavy topics that directly involved the children. Despite the difficulty, they talked candidly about his death and how it had affected them. He admitted that he’d been a ghost but that no one but Ford had seen or heard him. Mabel was relieved to hear that he didn’t attend his own funeral. He apologized for putting them through all of this, but Dipper pointed out that the only one who was to blame for anything was Bill Cipher, and that while they were changed by everything that happened, they were happy and grateful that Stanford saved Stan the way he did.

            Mabel beamed from across the table with a large mouthful of pizza that this experience made her treasure life even more, and that though things would change, she’d learn to hold onto things while she had them and never take them for granted one single second of one single day. Stan thought that was a very good lesson to have learned, for all of them. There were a few laughs over planning for Thanksgiving and breaking the news to their parents that they had gotten Ford back then lost Stan then got him back—sort of.

            When they’d finished dinner, Dipper and Mabel called Soos and Wendy and broke the news to them, then put Stan on the line, and there were a great deal of happy tears on all sides. Stan promised to visit them after he’d dropped the kids off at the bus station in morning.

            Wanting to make sure that Stanford could chat with Dipper before he left, Stan excused himself to go take a nap and set an alarm for nine o’clock. At seven-thirty, he put his head on the pillow and was out in minutes.


	5. Chapter 5

            When Stan had disappeared, Stanford cried out “Don’t go! Stanley!” and watched in horror as he vanished before his eyes. Left alone, again, Stanford stood dumbstruck by his own reaction and ran a trembling hand through his hair. “What the hell was that?” he asked himself. “He’ll be  _fine_ . We probably just got woken up again which has drawn him to consciousness and therefore out of the subconscious. It stands to reason…” He folded his arms and stared at the ground. “I need more information. This is maddening! If I was on the outside before, will I return? If so, when? Do we go in shifts? It was about six in the morning. The sun was rising.” Stanford began to pace. “What did Dipper see or hear when the change happened? And why don’t I know that? If we share  _my_ body, why do I not have access to memories made with  _my_ eyes?!” he shouted, turned away from the ocean and summoned the halls of his memory.

            Behind a towering classic Grecian portico fronted by dozens ionic columns of glistening white marble, Stanford Pines housed his memories. The tall, iron doors in the center of the edifice swung open for him and he strolled down the long, crooked hallway past doors, windows, stacks of books, darkened corners, and brightly lit library desks. The memories he’d made with Stan just today were being filed by enormous owls. They hooted softly as they worked and passed him the memories he requested, but of those from this morning, he found only the desolate hours he spent at the beach on the swings, crying and staring out hopelessly at the ocean until Stan arrived. “No! Where is his conversation with Dipper?!” he barked, throwing a manila folder labeled “Six Hours of Tears” into the air. Sheets of letter-sized paper fluttered to the ground. The owls had no answers, so he stormed off further down the hall.

            Stanford’s pace slowed as the lighting dimmed and a cacophony of voices and ambiance filled the hall, spilling over from the doors on either side of him. He gritted his teeth and hugged himself as he progressed. From one door he heard derisive laughter, from another—gunfire, his own agonized screams and the crack of a whip from yet another. Stanford ran, further and further down into his memory. Soon, his father’s voice, unintelligible and coarse, barked from a few of the doors. Finally, he found what he was looking for: a rough cackle of a laugh and the call of a sea gull. Stanford opened the door.

            “Let it rain!” Sixteen-year-old Stan grinned. “See if we care!” His face was round and fleshy, smattered with blemishes. He wore a white t-shirt, jeans with the cuffs rolled up, and his bare heels dug into the sand on either side of his brother’s legs. They sat on a blanket on the sand under the boardwalk, both facing out at the ocean. Stan pulled another blanket over his shoulders and wrapped it around the both of them. He rested his chin on his brother’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “I didn’t wanna work on the boat today, anyway.”

            “Mm,” Stanford agreed, passively. He held a newly released book in his hands—The Double Helix by Watson—and was reading intently. His eyes widened as his brother’s hands slid around his middle. _“Stan…”_

            “What? I’m cold,” he said and put his nose against Stanford’s neck to prove it.

            “So put some shoes on.”

            “I don’ wanna.”

            “Stanley…”

            “No one’s gonna see us. It’s rainin’ on the beach. No one’s here. ‘Sides, ‘s’not like I’m gonna _kiss_ you out here or anything.”

            “Ok, fine,” Stanford huffed and tried to get back to reading. “But don’t say I didn’t tell you so when we get grounded for two months again.”

            “Screw them. There ain’t no law against huggin’ your brother.”

            “Stanley, you know darn well the way you hug me isn’t normal.”

            “Well, _you_ ain’t normal—therefore it’s ok,” he stated.

            Stanford sighed, exasperated.

            “And I love you. So there,” he added and snuck a tiny kiss on the nape of Stanford’s neck.

Stanford’s face went crimson but rather than push him aside, he did his best to hide the bashful grin he couldn’t suppress. “Stan~!”

            His brother chuckled and promised to behave himself, hugging him a little tighter and doing no such thing.

            Fifty-eight-year-old Stanford Pines watched this sweet memory and shook his head. “But you were _wrong,_ Stan,” he said. The boys in the memory, just a play-back of events long passed, did not hear him. “It _wasn’t_ ok. It _isn’t_ ok. It will _never be_ ok. I’m too broken. It’s too late. What am I going to do now that you’re stuck with me forever?”

            He pulled a commercial-grade metal shutter down over the scene as he saw the police officer’s feet approach their hiding spot, walking slowly, the sound of his footsteps in the sand muffled by the rain. He would drag the boys out by their collars and escort the two of them back to Pines Pawns to tell their family what they were doing. They would be grounded for three months and the beating their father gave them would leave them sore for weeks. Stan would rarely touch him at all after this day for fear of ever greater punishment.

            Stanford Pines trudged back through the halls, past years of fear, loss, anguish, and betrayal. The sound of Bill Cipher’s laughter, Fiddleford’s shouting, Stan screeching—begging their father to punish him and him alone, echoed around him. When he emerged, the beach was grey yet again and dark clouds gathered on the horizon.

 

            .x.

            “Stanford!” Stan called as he re-entered the subconscious. He’d remembered to age down to a comfortable twenty-five and selected a green and grey wool starter jacket to combat the chill in the air. Rather than GSB for Glass Shard Beach, the letters on the breast were GF. The wind whipped a bit and the beach was grey and desolate. “Stanford?” he called again and at last saw his brother materialize a few yards away. He gave a small wave, but didn’t move to meet him. Stan frowned and jogged over to the hard-packed sand and stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

            “Hey, I took a nap,” he began, searching his brother’s eyes. They were dull and furtive. “You ok?”

            “Yes, fine. Has the sun set yet?”

            “No. Seven-fifty-two tonight. ‘Bout an hour to go. You think we tag out with the sun?”

            Stanford nodded.

            “Yeah, Dipper thinks that’s the deal, too.”

            “Excellent. When I’m awake I’ll work on correlating my circadian rhythm to the rotation of the Earth. Then we’ll know when to expect the change.”

            “Sure. Sounds great, Sixer. Dipper wants to say goodbye to ya, so I set an alarm for nine. I gotta put ‘em on the bus tomorrow, early.”

            Stanford raised his brows. “Oh. Yes. Summer’s over.”

            “Yep. And that’s not all, I wanted to ask ya somethin’ before you switch out with me,” Stan began cautiously and put a hand on Stanford’s shoulder. “I…uh…I took a shower, and…uh…”

            “Oh.” He pulled away from him and pushed his glasses up his nose. “I see. I’m sorry that you had to see all that without warning. Let me guess, you want to know about my leg?”

            All of the color fell out of Stan’s face and his soft, plaintive tone disappeared. “No! Don’t tell me! I don’t wanna know!”

            Since they were young, Stanford had delighted in being able to make Stan squirm, not just for the slightly sadistic rush it gave him, but because it was such a challenge. There was so little that squicked his twin out. Having hit the nail on the head, Stanford smirked, a bit puzzled as to why this was an issue, but happy to exploit it. “It’s no worry. Here,” he said and with a flick of the wrist the yellow couch emerged from the sand. He motioned for Stan to have a seat and morphed his pants into shorts.

            “Oh jumped up Christ that’s... ugh!” Stan covered his mouth and dropped down onto the couch as his knees gave out.

            Stanford paused for a beat before erupting in raucous laughter. At last his brother’s horror made sense. “You think it’s a cadaver leg!” He guffawed and held his sides while Stan glared at him indignantly from the safety of the couch. “Oh, Stan! No, I’m not walking around with another man’s leg. I cloned it!”

            “You cloned _your own leg?”_

            Stanford wiped a tear from his eye and calmed himself. “Yes, yes. I lost mine in a particularly grisly antimatter experiment in dimension fifty-three-asterisk. Fortunately, they were well versed in some incredible megical science.”

            “‘ _Megical’_.” Stan repeated, brow raised.  
            “Medical-magical.” Stanford grinned, the joy of explaining things to his brother paired with his adorable unease made him practically giddy. “See?” he said, pointing at his left, paler thigh. Stan recoiled in disgust and tried to bury himself in the couch cushions. “Stan, if you understand it, it won’t be so frightening.”

            “Who says I’m scared? That’s’ friggin’ gross!”

            “Well, it’s your body now, so you’d better get used to it. See this here?” Stanford continued and pointed to the silver staples that ringed his leg. Stan peaked with one eye but didn’t get any closer. “An alloy of silver and elven tears. The sigils on each staple are part of the spell as well. It will never come off, never become infected or be rejected by my body. They had amazing megical technologies that could clone a part of the body and grow it to the size needed in a matter of weeks. I got a new ticker there, as well,” he said, straightened his spine with pride and tapped his chest. “You would choke at the expense, but I think it was worth it.” With a whim Stanford put his pants back on. “Anything else I can illuminate for you?” His brother averted his eyes. “Want me to guess again?” He waggled his eyebrows, hoping he’d ask about the nasty chemical burn on his arm he’d gotten in dimension thirty-three-sigma. That story would be sure to nauseate him good and proper.

            Stan shook his head and took a deep breath. “Your back.”

            “Would you like to see it?” Stanford asked, his voice firm, cool, and matter-of-fact, and sinisterly provocative. Stan nodded weakly, so he conjured a wooden chair which he flipped around and sat in backwards with his back facing his brother. He pulled his shirt off over his head and exposed the entirety of his back to him.

            The shock wasn’t bad as Stan had remembered from seeing it for the first time in the bathroom mirror, but stomach-wrenching just the same. The marks were raised, whitish, shiny, and numerous. “Jesus…” he whispered.

            “Thirty lashes with some sort of barbed thing,” Stanford said over his shoulder with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Twenty-two years ago. I wasn’t very strong and I was taking much bigger risks. I got caught in a dimension that was rather fond of corporal punishment. Ha. I’m lucky they didn’t execute me!”

            “Wha’dja do?” Stan asked, breathlessly.

            “Grand larceny. Long story, really, I—.”

            His facade was tall and wide, but crumbled in an instant as he felt Stan’s touch in the center of his back. Stanford flinched and leapt from the chair, knocking it over. He spun around to face his twin.

            Stan stared at him with a lost, sad expression. “I thought we were past this…” The older man peered back at his twin’s dark brown eyes and fell to his knees. Stan vaulted off the couch and grasped him by his bare shoulders. “Stanford! Are you ok?”

            He didn’t reply, rendered speechless by the flood of emotions that his brother’s touch against his skin had unleashed. Unlike the hugs they’d exchanged earlier, his tender touch short-circuited his brain. The clouds that had threatened on the horizon swept in and darkened the sky. The waves roiled and a storm rushed in, lightning flashed and thunder cracked. “Are you doing this?!” Stan panicked and shook him. “Stop it!” Realizing that he could do nothing to change the psychic storm, Stan furrowed his brows and did what he could to protect them. The boardwalk spiraled up and over them, shielding them from the rain. Stan sat behind his brother, covered his scarred back with his body and held on tight. A red-and-black plaid wool blanket from their childhood appeared, wrapped around them, and warmed his skin. “Hang in there, Sixer. Hang in there! I gotcha!”

            In a few minutes, the storm passed and Stan focused on the environment, doing his best to force as many happy, cheerful elements into it as possible. The sand beneath them dried and he could smell cotton candy and hot dogs coming from somewhere down the boardwalk. The Stan-O-War bobbed on the waves, bright and shining as if it were brand new. “That’s better. It’s ok, now.” He wrapped his arms around him and hugged him from behind—one hand curled around the front of his shoulder, the other across his belly—and rested his cheek between his shoulder blades. Stanford shuddered but didn’t move to escape. He squeezed his eyes shut and the dam opened. He bawled like a child and just let his brother hold him for several minutes.

            “I’msorry,” Stan whispered, after his sobbing had calmed to a few hitching breaths.

            “For what?” Stanford’s voice rasped.

            “I pushed you into the portal. This storm, and these scars, they’re all because ‘a me,” he said and squeezed him a little tighter.

            “Stan,” he said quietly and put his own trembling arms over Stan’s. His voice was soft, tired. “None of that is your fault. We can’t keep blaming each other or even ourselves for the things that went wrong in the past. Hell, I’m still not totally convinced that Cipher didn’t have something to do with half of our misfortunes.”

            Stan’s brows furrowed. “The _triangle?”_

            Stanford nodded. “He possessed a time-traveler. It stands to reason that he could have gone back and done things to trip me up, to break us apart, and send us on the trajectory that would unleash his master plan.”

            Stan shuddered. “Shit. Then if you’re not mad at what happened, what was _this_ all about?”

            Stanford’s brows pinched tightly together. “I’m…” he almost apologized but caught himself. “The storm…my reaction…having you this close, it’s _hard_ for me, Stan.” He gripped brother’s arms tighter and a few more tears splashed down on them. “Even though you’re right here, on the inside I’m just as scarred as my epidermis. It’s hard to open back up after I spent so many years so carefully sealing you away,” he muttered, “and you had only just started to unlock my heart—your smile was finally starting to penetrate the darkness when you died in my arms.”

            “Stanford…” Stan breathed against his skin. “We got time, now, right? I ain’t goin’ nowhere and I’m not gonna let you go.” He rubbed his stubble against his brother’s back lightly, nuzzling him. “This right here, reminds me of that time the cop caught us, you remember that?” He shuddered in reply. “But look, Stanford. It’s sunny out there, and thanks to you no one’s ever gonna come between us or tell us that we’re _wrong,_ ever again _._ ”

            He nodded a few times and took a cleansing breath. “Will you have patience with me, Stanley?”

            “Whatever you need, Sixer.” They sat like that for a long while, listening to the gulls and the surf and calming down until their breathing was even and their hearts were lighter.

            “Stanford?”

            “Mm-hm?”

            “Can we sleep in here?”  
            “I highly doubt it”

            “Then why am I so sleepy?”

            “Your psyche needs a rest. You want to lie down?”

            In reply, Stan released him. Stanford stood, aged himself back down to about twenty five and crawled out from under the boardwalk. Stan joined him in the sunshine and looked to his brother hopefully. “Only if you’ll join me? If that’s ok?”

            Stanford shrugged. “Sure, that’s fine.”

            Stan extended his index finger just as he’d seen his brother do before and willed a large, four-poster bed with dozens of pillows and a fluffy comforter to appear before them. It looked incredibly out of place on the beach. Stan marveled at what a good job he’d done, and Stanford gave a shy grin.

            “Do you want big spoon or little spoon?” he asked.

            Stan’s eyes twinkled with happiness. “Big spoon!”

            The brothers snuggled into bed, Stan a sleepy sprawling happy mess and Stanford a bit awkward, shy, and a little hesitant, but willing to try to be comfortable. They settled in and in moments he understood what Stan meant when he said he felt sleepy.

            “Hm…” Stanford hummed, his mind calm and reflecting back on what had sent him down the path that lead him to this point.

            “What?”

            “While you were gone I looked around for your memories but I couldn’t find them.”

            “Whaddaya mean?” Stan mumbled.

            “I know where mine are, but if you’ve brought yours with you and you’re making new memories while you’re awake, where are yours?”

            “Only you would wonder about that.”

            “You don’t?”

            “No.” There was a pause, then Stan scoffed a little.

            “What?”

            “You’ll laugh at this, I hope. Get this—earlier? I had a hard time with pronouns.”

            Stanford gave a soft, rolling chuckle and Stan snuggled closer. “That feels so good,” he said, feeling his brother’s body shaking with laughter. “Like what it musta felt like in the womb.”

            The chuckling stopped abruptly and Stanford went stiff.

            “Oh no,” Stan panicked. “I say somethin’ wrong again?!”

_“No,”_ Stanford said firmly. He twisted in the bed and turned to face his twin. “You said something so, so beautiful.”

            A dopey grin spread across Stan’s face and he took Stanford’s chin in his hand. To his delight, his brother closed his eyes and tilted his head and for the first time in forty years, the two most star-crossed of lovers kissed.

 

**Epilogue:**

            Stan Pines operated the Mystery Shack, entertaining tourists and making people happy (and less wealthy) by day and Stanford invented and experimented and made the world a better place by night. He wore a timer cleverly disguised as a Timex easy-reader watch synched to the movement of the Earth in relation to the sun. When it chirped in public, he made sure his eyes were closed for the few seconds it took for the change to happen, hiding the ethereal purple glow.

            A few days after his one hundred and twentieth birthday, he was giving the last tour of the day and someone remarked about how fit he was for such an old man. He laughed, then clutched his chest.

            In the few moments remaining, Stan held his brother’s soul close to his. “So this is it, huh?” he asked.

            “It would appear so.”

            “You scared, Stanford?”

            “No,” he replied. “I’m with you.”

 

.x.x.x.

_He knows (he knows)_

_There’ll always be a special place in my heart for him_

_He knows, he knows, he knows_

_Yeah, he knows (he knows)_

_No matter how far apart we are_

_He knows, I’m always right there beside him_

_We’re two hearts, believing in just one mind_

_Beating together till the end of time_

.x.x.x.

 

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ^____^ Thanks for reading!   
> I'm still working on Tale of Two Sandis, so if you like AUs, genderswap, Fidd!Author, lady scientists, drama and angst, check that one out~


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